


Remember That Night

by FyreFlys



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, DNF, Eventual Happy Ending, Fluff, Gay Panic, Heartbreak, Hurt/Comfort, Internal Conflict, Internalized Homophobia, Late Night Drives, Letters, M/M, Metaphors, No smut but a little suggestive, Sad boi, Song Inspired, Starry nights, big ol’ feelin’s, cloudy skies, coming to terms with sexuality, cross-Atlantic, friends - Freeform, george cant make up his mind, george seems like a jerk, lonely, oof, touch starved
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-12 07:35:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29006904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FyreFlys/pseuds/FyreFlys
Summary: [G] Do you remember that nightIt's stupid that it only takes 5 words to completely undo him///Clay's still recovering from a fall out with George when he gets a message from him late at night. And all it does is resurface painful memories of a time when Clay thought they were something more.
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 58





	1. Reflection

**Author's Note:**

> Not usually a fan of writing fics about real ppl, but here we are I guess.  
> Was in the car listening to “Remember That Night?” by Sara Kays and randomly got inspired to write something based off of it. I suggest listening to it :)  
> / / /  
>  _We went for a drive, 2:30 in the morning  
>  I kissed you, it was pouring  
> We held each other tight before the night was over  
> You looked over your shoulder  
> Oh, I was doing fine  
> You said, "Remember that night?  
> Remember that night?"_

Clay sighs, pushing back in his chair, stretching his arms. He releases a yawn, left shoulder popping. He pulls off his headphones, spinning around to get out of his chair. 

The wooden floor is cool as he pads to the kitchen. Moonlight spills in through the back sliding door, illuminating the dining room.

His hand slides across the wall, stopping as his palm grazes over the pantry doorknob. He pulls it open, blindly feeling for a the box of granola bars. He's successful. 

Fur brushes up against his ankle, and he smiles, glancing down to barely see Patches in the dark. 

He's careful not to trip over her on his way to the fridge. He hisses as the bright light spills over him when he pulls open the door. He grabs a Gatorade, shuts the door, and then heads back to his office. 

The chair wheels whirl as he plops back down, stopping himself as he reaches his desk. 

He pulls his headphones back on, opening up his editor. Another yawn forces itself through his lips, and he breaks the seal on the Gatorade, taking a sip.

He decides to just load the recording in; he can worry about editing tomorrow. It's almost 1 am. 

Definitely not the latest he's stayed up, but after a long recording session with the boys his brain is tired. Manhunts tend to drain him mentally. After the rush of adrenaline from winning (or losing), he tends to take a small crash. This recording took particularly longer than usual. There were a lot of close calls. And it took him far longer to lose them than usual. 

Patches hops up on the desk, stepping in front of his screen, blocking his view. He sighs, pulling her off the desk and onto his lap, scratching her head as he clicks at his screen. 

Patches purrs, and it pulls a tired smile to his lips. He brushes a finger under her chin, and she presses into his hand.

A ping in his headset makes him look up. It's a discord notification. A message from George. 

For a brief moment a knot forms in his throat. He shoves it off. He decides to take a glance. 

He regrets it. 

_[G] do you remember that night_

His chest clenches. 

Why would he bring this up? It's been five months. He thought they moved on. He moved on. Or, that's what he tells himself.

He runs a hand over his face. 

Of course he remembers that night. How could he not? What sort of question is that? 

_Fuck._

The feelings he's been repressing for months now crash out of their carefully built glass cage, roaring through his heart. And it hurts. 

He remembers that night like it happened yesterday. It's quite possibly one of his clearest memories. And he's been trying so desperately to forget it. Block it out of his mind. He's been so meticulous. So careful. To make sure he doesn't think about it. That he doesn't let his mind wander in that direction. Forcing himself not to feel warmth bloom through his chest at every giggle or laugh that leaves George's lips. Not blush at or admire his smile. Strictly feel nothing. 

And he was so close to feeling like it was fine. Like this is normal. Like nothing ever existed between them. Like nothing ever happened. 

But it did. 

Something did happen. 

He slams a hand on his desk. Patches shoots up at the sound, bolting for the door. 

"Fucking hell."

He's pissed just as much as he's upset. Every little thought he's been repressing washing over him at once. Overwhelming. Like a tidal wave of admiration and pain. It makes his chest ache so bad he can't breathe. Tears are in his eyes without his consent. Slipping down his red cheeks. 

It's stupid that it only takes 5 words to completely undo him. 

What the hell is he suppose to say to that? He doesn't even want to respond. 

He's tempted to say no. That no, he does not remember that night. Or pretend he has no clue what he's talking about; like it was so unimportant that it's something he can easily gloss over. Just to see what sort of spiral that throws George into.

There's not even a question mark after it. Like George knows the answer already. That the question really doesn't need asked. That it's less of a question than it is a statement.

Why would he bring this up?

Clay wipes a frustrated tear off his cheek. Sniffing. Hands shifting to hover over his keyboard. Like he's about to type out a response. 

But he's frozen. Mind blank. 

There's so many things he could say. So many things he wants to say. But none of them come to fruition. 

He huffs, slouching forward to rest his elbows on his desk, head in his hands. Running through his hair and tugging in frustration. 

Maybe he doesn't respond. Force George to elaborate. Or apologize. Or just sit in tensity. Brooding. Contemplating his decision. Not just this one, where he chose to bring it back up, but the one where he forced a rivet- hell, a river- between them. 

If he didn't want it then why did he do it in the first place? If he didn't want it then why is he bringing it back up, like he's having second thoughts?

Clay doesn't want to play his game. He can't play his game. Where he goes back and forth. Where he can't decide what he actually wants. 

Clay doesn't have the patience. Or the mental reserves to deal with it. He's already drained. Has no more tears or heart break to give. Any more and he's afraid it would break him for good. 

What's more frustrating is that George made him promise he wouldn't tell Nick about it- any of it. Or tell anyone. There's not a single person for him to vent to. And it feels unfair. 

And it hurts. Because George could have just kept it between the two of them. Let it just break them apart. But instead his demand for secrecy cracked the fissure even wider, and forced their friends away too. 

Nick was so upset. So frustrated that they wouldn't just tell him what was going on. Why they were fighting. Why they weren't talking to each other. Why Clay would occasionally call him in tears, and never tell him why. 

_"I don't even recognize you guys anymore. You aren't the same people that I'm friends with....Where did they go?"_

And that had hurt. Clay could barely handle losing George. But Nick too? It was too much. 

_"I'm right here,"_ he had whispered, tears threatening to fall. Chest heavy. 

All three of them had been arguing for almost an hour. And Clay was so close to the brink of tears, eyes burning and a lump forming in his throat. Tight and hot in his chest. 

Arguments weren't uncommon for them. They argued a lot. But usually it was petty little things. Mostly just joking about. Not really arguing over things that actually mattered, or things that really made a difference. They never actually got angry with each other.

And this one had started out just as that. But suddenly, and Clay's still not entirely sure who really started it; where the spark got struck that set them all ablaze, but next thing he knew they were arguing like they were all rightfully pissed at one another. 

And Clay was pissed. At George. But he found himself spraying toxicity over Nick too. Too upset. Taking it out on anyone he could. And George was doing the exact same.

 _"No. No you're not."_ Nick had sighed, sounding weak. Voice breaking halfway through. 

And it hurt. Because Clay had never really heard him that way. Like he had nothing left. Like he'd lost everything. At least, not for a long time. And Clay had forgotten how hard it was to hear his best friend so broken and empty. 

The urge to call him right now is over whelming. Find his number in his phone. Ring him up. Tell him everything. 

It's so tempting. 

Because what does he really owe George, at this point? For him to care so much about keeping his promise that he'd let himself watch one of the best people in his life slowly walk out of it? 

He realizes in this moment, that he's still not over it. Probably never will be. He spent 5 months convincing himself he was. But the truth is he just isn't.

And maybe he shouldn't be. What George did to him was wrong. Unfair. Mean. 

Clay felt he deserved at least an explanation. Why he did it. Why he would lead him on like that. And then cut him off, cold turkey. Like nothing ever happened between them.

 _"I don't have to explain myself to you."_ He'd spat over discord. Voice piercing in Clay's headset; so the opposite of his usual tone. _"I don't have to tell you anything. This is my life. My feelings. You don't get to know every single little thing about me. I really don't owe you anything."_

And that had stung so hard. Like a whip cracking down across his organs. His breath hitching in agony, mouth open but larynx failing to remember how to make sound. A sudden and hot tear streaking down his cheek.

His eyes glance over the message.

_Do you remember that night_

What's worse still, is he doesn't want to ruin what they still have. They've managed to stay on speaking terms. Managed to stay cordial. For the fans, at the very least. 

And Clay really doesn't want to lose that. Because that's really all he has left of him. Is this false sense of before; before everything coasted downhill and erupted into flames. 

And telling Nick would ruin everything they have left. And he knows it. 

He could play dumb. Pretend like he didn't realize the gravity of his actions. But he knows George wouldn't fall for that. George knows he's not stupid. 

_Do you remember that night_

He wants to scream. Shout. Roar. Break a lamp. Smash a hole through the wall. Just- throw things. Cry like a baby. Have a massive temper tantrum. 

Because he's been holding it back for so long. And it hurts. It's only kept escalating in the back of his mind. He's operated under the false pretense that he's healing; getting better. Recovering. But he's just slapped a bandaid over the cut ventricular of his heart. Hiding it. Pretending it's fine. Like the bandaid has cured him. 

_Do you remember that night_

But he's going into cardiac arrest. 

His hand finds his phone, and he's yanking off his headset. His fingers move deftly, like this is just second nature. Clicking his name. Pressing the phone to his ear. Eyes squeezed closed, right knee bouncing in anticipation as it rings. Slow and agonizing. Anxiety building up in his chest. 

He can feel it already going to voicemail. It's rung for too long. He hisses. Pulling the phone away to just hang up.

And then he answers. 

"Uh- hello?"

Clay pulls the phone back to his ear, sitting up straighter in his chair. 

"Hi." He says. Voice meek.

"Um. Why are you calling?" Nick asks. He sounds groggy. 

Clay glances at the clock. It's almost 2. He's been fretting over George's message for an hour. Nick had probably gone to bed. 

"Uh- I- I woke you up. I'm sorry." He says.

Nick seems to catch the wary tone of his voice. Clay hears him shift. 

"It's fine. What's going on? Are you okay?"

_Am I okay?_

He bites his lip. "No."

A pause. "Oh."

"I- we need to talk. Please." 

"Y-yeah. Sure. What about?"

Clay takes deep breath, trying to finally fill his lungs, the heaviness on his chest making it hard. 

He can still turn back. He can choose to not make this mistake.

_Is it really a mistake, though?_

"I...me and George. I- I need to tell you. I can't, I can't...keep it from you. It's killing me."

Nick shifts. Clears his throat. "Okay."

He could still turn back. Just hang up. Say he changed his mind. 

"He made me promise I wouldn't tell anyone. Including you." He whispers. 

Nick is quiet. Breathing so soft on the other end that you can barely hear it. 

"It happened. A couple days after you left." He starts. 

They'd planned to get together, finally. It had taken them a while to finally schedule a time they could all hang out. They eventually found an opening in April, where both of them would be able to visit Florida for a two weeks. But things ended up happening, and Nick had to come a week earlier than planned. So it was just him and Clay, for a week. And then all three of them for a week. And then just Clay and George. 

Which was fine. It was all fine. They had so much fun together. Going to the beach. Visiting Disney World. Actually getting to see each other. In person. Interact. Face to face. 

And then something sort of shifted. A day or so after Nick left. It was quieter. Him and George still had a blast hanging out. But something about it just felt...softer. 

He's not entirely sure how it happened. They both couldn't sleep. Clay had gone out to get a midnight snack when he walked in on him in the kitchen, staring into the open fridge. Yellow light spilling out over his face. 

They'd talked. Tired and yawning. And it was, again, soft. That's really the only way he can describe it. Warm and soft. Comfortable. 

Maybe even intimate. But a domestic sort of intimacy. That may have been verging on more. He's still not entirely sure.

And then somewhere along the way, they both found themselves in his car, driving down the highway. He distinctly remembers glancing at the clock. A digital _2:30_ written in red. 

If he thinks hard about it, it probably started at the beginning. When George had realized Clay had walked into the kitchen. Jumping, slightly startled. He'd mumbled a sorry, closing the fridge. 

Clay had cocked an eyebrow. A smile grazing his lips. _"I might have a lot of money George, but electric bills are still pretty pricey."_

George had smirked, bashful. _"Couldn't sleep."_ He breathed.

Clay had nodded. _"Me too."_

They'd drifted to the island bar, taking a seat on the stools. And talked. Quietly. Softly. Domestic intimacy, verging on more. 

And George had mentioned something about his grandparents always taking him for a drive through the countryside when he was little and couldn't sleep. 

But how they'd gotten from there, into the car, and on the road at 2:30 am, is still fuzzy.

They'd pulled up onto a hillside. Far outside Orlando. And you could see the glow of the city off in the distance from on top of the hill. Somewhere along the way they'd moved from the car, outside on the grassy hillside. Laying down and gazing up at the night sky. It was sort of cloudy, but you could still see some of the stars.

 _"I think...there's Virgo."_ Clay remembers whispering, pointing.

George had glanced over at him. Eyebrows furrowed.

 _"I went through an astronomy phase when I was younger."_ Clay explained. 

There had been a pause. And then George breathed, _"Where?"_

Clay glanced over at him. Then scooted closer, brushing up against his shoulder, leaning his head against his. 

_"There,"_ he pointed. Tracing the lines with his finger. 

_"What is it suppose to be?"_

_"A woman."_

_"...I don't see it."_

He pointed. _"Here. Her legs. And body. Arms."_ He traced in the sky. 

_"...I guess."_

Clay had smiled. _"Here. This one's easier. Leo. The lion."_ He traced in the sky. _"His head. Body. Legs...and tail."_

George had hummed. 

They laid pressed against each other for a while. The clouds gathered more in the sky, and after a while it became impossible to see the stars.

 _"Do you know why I like the night sky?"_ George had asked. 

_"No. Why?"_

He turned his head to look at him. _"Because it looks the same, to me."_

Clay wasn't quite sure what he meant.

George had glanced back up, and the clouds had parted briefly, allowing moonlight to cast down on them. Illuminating George's face.

 _"Like. Everyone likes sunsets and sunrises. Because they're pretty, or something. All the orange and pink and purple. But it's all just...brown. Yellow."_ George sighed. _"But the night sky doesn't have colour. It's just...dark. So it looks the same. And I think it's pretty."_

Clay found himself watching him as he talked. And as he finished his sentence, he found the words slipping to the edge of his tongue.

_You know what else is pretty?_

But he didn't say it. 

It was true. In that moment George looked, in full honesty, more than pretty. Beyond handsome. Perhaps heavenly was the best word. 

And he could have said it. Because it wouldn't really be the first time he'd complimented George. He, at times, shamelessly flirted with him. But that was when they were being silly. And that moment...was different.

That moment was intimate. Almost suffocatingly so. It felt like George was confessing a part of his soul. Releasing it out into the air, trusting Clay to protect this vulnerable part of him. And he would. Forever hold it close to his heart, where he (assumed) it would be safe. 

So he couldn't say it. Because, in George's eyes, it would seem in-genuine. Almost an insult to the moment they were sharing. That, or he'd pick up on the inflection in Clay's voice, and realize he meant it. And by that small confession, he meant a whole lot more than just "you're pretty". That he was admitting more than just a compliment, but attraction for his best friend. 

Clay's not entirely sure where it came from. He supposes it had always sort of been there. Or it grew. Gradually. Slowly. Simmering and cumulating in the back of his mind for years. Till it just existed: this consensual understanding with himself that he liked George. More than a friend. That he found him cute. Pretty. Handsome- _heavenly_. 

Maybe it should have startled him, somewhere along the way. Or at least made him pause and think. Perhaps panic, a little. 

Of course he knew it was okay, if he liked guys. But the fact that up until that point, it had only been girls, probably should have unsettled him. His character had changed, without him fully realizing. He wasn't entirely who he thought he was. 

But it had happened so steadily, that he sort of just came to accept it as it was. And he was okay with it. That he felt a warmth spread through his chest at the sound of his voice. That a shameless smile never failed to tug at his lips. That he'd laugh at any joke, however stupid. 

In hindsight, he easily could have said it. But he didn't.

Instead they laid there, quietly. George's confession raw in his mind. 

///

Clay half expects Nick to interrupt him, at this point. He just, slyly, admitted to him that he likes George. 

_"I almost told him he was pretty. He looked so pretty..."_

And even if he grazed past it, he knows Nick's not stupid. Nick caught it. He knows. He heard him. 

But he doesn't say anything. Just shifting on the other end, the receiver picking up his gentle deep breath. 

///

And then it had started to sprinkle. Tiny raindrops dropping on Clay's nose. One to his cheek. And he had smiled, closing his eyes. The light rain felt nice. 

George had extended his arms up into the air, feeling the rain. A small chuckle had left his lips. 

And they both laughed. Hearty but soft. Like two little boys. When the world feels simple and breezy. And your lungs almost feel like on the verge of screaming for oxygen, that moment before where it feels like you've been pumped full of helium. A tightness in your lungs that also feels so light and free. Warm. 

And then the drops had gotten fatter. Bigger plops against their skin. Until suddenly it was down pouring. 

They practically squealed. Scrambling off the ground and rushing for the car. Halfway Clay slipped on the slick grass, arms windmilling as he tried to catch his balance. He fell face first onto the ground. 

George had laughed so hard he sounded like windshield wipers. Clay groaned, flipping over. Cheeks flushing red in embarrassment when he looked up to see George clutching his stomach, gasping for breath as he roared. 

George offered him a hand, still wanting to get out of the rain. Pulling him up off the ground.

 _"Oh that was golden,"_ he gasped, _"you looked like a cartoon character slipping on a banana peel."_

And he hung onto his hand as they sprinted for the car, only letting him go when they parted to hop in. 

Clay turned on the car, cranking up the air. Windshield wipers turning on automatically at the rain. He turned on the overhead light, glancing over at George, who was still laughing. And Clay couldn't help but laugh with him. He supposed it was pretty funny. 

They were both soaked. Wet as dogs. Laughing harder at just how ridiculous they looked. 

Eventually they calmed down, sighing as they tried to catch their breath. And then there had been a silence. The rain still pattering heavily on the roof of the car. Almost a roar. 

He caught George looking at him, out of the corner of his eye. And he turned to look at him, eyes meeting his. They stared, silently. Then George reached out, pushing Clay's hair off his forehead and more out of his eyes. Fingers lingering at his jaw. 

Clay felt himself go red. George just looked at him, brown eyes dark in the dim car light. Flickering down. Down at his lips. Clay felt his own gaze drifting in a similar direction. 

And then George had leaned over the center consul. A hand coming up to cup his cheek. Lips clasping with his. 

A million sparks seemed to go off behind Clay's eyes. A million emotions at once. Swarming and rushing through him with the force of Niagara Falls. Heat climbing up the back of his neck and over the shells of his ears. Across his cheeks and chest. Hair standing up on his arms. Butterflies flying up his throat. 

It was just a simple kiss. Lips pressed against his. Short. But heavy. 

Clay's left hand hung suspended in the air, reaching to cup his face, but failing to find it's destination; too shocked to fully reach. 

George pulled away, warm breath brushing across his face. Pupils blown in his dark brown eyes. Flickering across Clay's face. The faintest blush on his cheeks. 

It was wordless. The entire thing. From the moment Clay's hand found its way to the back of his head, pulling him back in. To the drive home. The heated kisses as they stumbled through the kitchen towards the bedroom. Peeling off soaked shirts. Silent until Clay was pushed to sit on the bed, and he finally got a chance to breathe. Moonlight cascading through the window, casting dark shadows across George’s side. Once again; heavenly. And George just looking at him. Eyes flickering across his features. A hand combing through his blond mop of hair. 

_"Maybe...we should stop."_ Clay had found himself whispering. 

_"Yeah."_ George flushed, backing off. 

///

Clay pauses. Bitting his lip. Letting it sink in for Nick. Waiting for him to say something. Anything.

"...woah." Is all that he says.

And it tugs a smile to Clay's lips. 

"That's..." Nick goes quiet. So quiet that Clay can't even hear his breathing anymore. And then: "He...kissed you."

Clay hums. 

Nick blows a raspberry. "That's...woah."

Clay's not sure how to ask him what he thinks. His thoughts other than "woah".

Because he values his thoughts on it all. Does he think it's crazy? Stupid? Is he mad? Angry? Upset? Uncomfortable? Happy?

"I mean...I knew you liked him but...I didn't think he liked you back." Nick finally says.

And it has Clay sputtering. “You- you _what_?"

He can practically see Nick shrugging, as if it's no big deal. "Yeah. It's been sort of obvious, bro. Sorta bummed you never cared to tell me..." he trails. 

Clay sighs. "Sorry. I just...I was just going to pretend like I...like I didn't. I never wanted things to get complicated, between us all. I...wasn't sure what you would think."

"Clay." Nick sighs. "You know I wouldn't judge you."

"No, I- I know _that_ , I just...it's _George_. Our friend."

"Yeah." Nick hums. And Clay knows by the tone in his voice that he understands; he gets it.

///

The next day neither of them mentioned it. Neither of them acted like anything had happened. Like everything was "normal". Even though it was very clearly not normal. 

It was awkward. Strained silences. Cringe-worthy small talk. But it was okay. It wasn't absolutely terrible.

But that night, at around 2 or so, Clay was woken up by the covers of his bed lifting up. He opened his eyes to see George's shadow hovering. And then sliding under the covers. Scooting closer, tugging the blanket up to his chin. He found Clay's hand, silently intertwining their fingers. 

Clay's chest felt like it was exploding. Warmth rushing through even his fingers and toes. 

_"I couldn't sleep."_ George had whispered. 

Clay breathed out an "okay", and then George scooted closer, just inches from him. And fell asleep. 

They woke up the next morning with legs intertwined, hugging each other closer. George's head tucked under his chin. 

They stayed close the entire day. Clay hugging him from behind as George made them breakfast. Head resting on his shoulder. Occasionally pressing a kiss to his collar. 

And it just continued like that. For the rest of the week. Silently slipping kisses. Cuddling on the couch. Falling asleep in the same bed. Waking up next to each other. Like they'd been doing this their whole lives. 

And yet every single touch felt like touching flames. Racing hearts and pounding pulses. Like they'd never brushed lips before. Or grazed each other's hand. Like everything was the first time. 

They never talked about it. Never discussed what was going on. What they were doing. What any of it meant. 

Clay wishes they had. Maybe things would have turned out differently. In fact he's certain they would have. He wouldn't be as broken hearted. They'd have been on the same page. Or at least understood each other's intentions. George would have known that Clay felt it was real. Clay would have known George wasn't serious. 

Maybe he would have been able to cherish it more. While it lasted.

But then why would George take it so far? Let it go that far? To get where they did, that last night.

Clay's not entirely sure if he can even tell Nick about it. He's not sure he'll ever be able to talk about it. 

Because that night had been so much more than frisking under the sheets. The bedroom had filled with a sort of passion Clay's not sure he can ever fully comprehend. An entirely new kind of intimacy he's still not sure he can really wrap his head around. One he's not sure really existed till then.

That night it felt like he'd been stripped clean of every single pain he'd ever felt. Taken and twisted into anything and everything the opposite of pain; a thing Clay's not sure even has a name. And then broadcasted back at him on full blast. 

But more because that's the night that hurt the most, when George ghosted him. Because it had been so raw. Clay had never so brazenly worn his heart on his sleeve. Feelings so bare and vehement. And it wasn't one sided; George had practically laid his heart out on silver plater for him. Confessed his entire being. Like an open book laid bare for the taking. 

So the fact that it was, and then just _wasn't_ , devastates him more than anything else. And he can't bring himself to talk about it. Because it just hurts. So goddamn much.

So he just hints at it. Skims over it. Moves on. Because thinking about it any longer will only make him choke up. 

Luckily Nick doesn't stop him. Doesn't ask him to clarify what he means when he says "things got pretty serious the last night."

And the morning after had been fine. Perfect, in fact. Perfect if it weren't for the fact that both of them had been struck with the devastation that this was the end. George was going back to London. They wouldn't be able to do this, any of this, anymore.

Sure, they'd stay in contact. Talk (Clay thought). But wouldn't be able to touch each other. Hold each other close. Silently lay next to each other. Listen to the other's breathing. 

Clay distinctly remembers George reaching out to brush messy blond hair out of his face. Thumb grazing over his cheek. Sad smile on his lips. Chocolate brown eyes scanning his face. Hand warm on his chin. Shifting to lean forward, pecking his lips. 

And his confessions from the night before were silently said in his face. 

Saying goodbye at the airport was hard. It took a lot to let him go. Clay didn't want to let him. Crushing him close. Face buried in his neck. Inhaling his scent. 

_"I'll miss my flight."_

_"Maybe I want you to."_

_"I can't."_

_"Please."_ He had pouted.

 _"I'm sorry."_ He just whispered, head turning to press a kiss to the side of his head. 

The next day, after Clay was sure he was back home, he shot him a text. 

George never answered. Clay figured maybe he was sleeping. Probably tired from jet lag. He gave it time. And then suddenly it had been a week. And George hadn't said a single thing to him. No texts. DMs. Messages. Anything in a discord call. And Clay started freaking out. Had he done something wrong? Was George okay? Did he fall off the planet? 

Eventually George had picked up, after Clay spammed him with messages and texts and worried voicemails. 

And that was the first time he broke his heart. Acted like nothing had happened between them. Just about played dumb. Instead, he finally just said "I don't want to talk about it." And provided no further context.

The rest just spiraled from there. George practically told him it was over. They weren't a thing. He wasn't "doing this" with him. Pushed him away. Interacted with him like nothing had changed. Like Clay wasn't absolutely devastated and heart broken. 

When Clay finally finishes the sun is starting to warm the horizon out his window. 

Nick is speechless for a while. And then: "He just...ghosted you? Pretended like nothing happened."

"Yeah." Clay swallows, throat dry. 

"What the hell." 

Clay picks at the seams in his comforter. Somewhere during the night he'd made it to his bed. Scene of the crime.

"That's so...shitty. What the fuck? And he never told you why?"

"No." Clay says quietly.

"...the hell." He grumbles. "That really doesn't sound like a George thing to do"

The more Clay thinks about it though, the more it does seem like a George thing to do. George isn’t very open with his emotions or feelings. Always so reserved. Reluctant to give it up. Dancing around heavy conversations. Never wanting to really commit. So the fact that he refused to talk about the things going on between them, fits him just about perfectly. But for him to go as far as to completely act as if nothing had happened between them, is too far. And that’s the part that hurts. 

Clay shrugs, laying back on the bed. Staring up at the ceiling. “I don’t know. I can see him doing something like this, but not...not this exactly.”

Nick sighs. “Yeah. I guess.” 

There’s a silence. Droning out between them. Clay closes his eyes.

“I just. I told myself I was over it. That its fine.” Clay breathes. Exhausted. “And then he just has to go and...fuckin’, ask if I remember. Like, of course I fucking do. Why the hell would he bring this back up? I thought we were done.”

Nick is silent on the other end. Obviously trying to figure out what he could possibly say. “Maybe he means something else.” He offers. But Clay can tell by the meekness in his voice that even he doesn’t believe it. 

“I just. I don’t want to play his games. I can’t.”

Nick shuffles on the other end. “Is...there anything I can do? To help?”

Clay sighs. “No. I don’t want to drag you into our drama. I just...you deserve to know.” 

_And I needed to tell someone. Before it kills me._

“Okay.” He breathes. 

“...Thanks, Nick.”

“Of course.”

“Um. Talk to you later, I guess.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Bye.”

“Bye.”

He hangs up. 

He expels the air in his lungs, staring at the ceiling. Body aching with exhaustion. He scratches he face, rubbing at the stubble on his chin. His skin feels numb to the touch; nerves refusing to pick up impulses as a result of lack of sleep. He hurts. Physically and mentally. A heaviness settling in his bones. Blanketing his mind. Dragging him under its dark cloud where insecurities and anxieties preside. 

He pulls up the discord message. Blankly staring at the words on his screen.

_Do you remember that night_

And for once his fingers find their way across the keyboard.

_[C] Which night?_


	2. Which Would You Prefer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clay struggles to deal with the heartbreak that George's message has pulled back up to the surface.
> 
> / / /
> 
> _The day after you had reached out  
>  I was broken for the second time around  
> I prayed on the third day that I would be okay  
> That I'd forget you were ever mine  
> _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ayo had to change the rating bc things get a lil spicy. (not really. more like I hint at spicy things...)  
> This chapter is just feels feels feels. Shorter than the last, but hopefully still okay :3
> 
> I think this will probably turn out to be 4 chapters, but don't hold me to it. I'm still not entirely sure how I want this one to end, so try to hold in there. I want a happy ending, but I'm not sure how that could play out.

He crashes fairly soon after the message is sent. Too exhausted to care that he's only feeding his horrific sleep schedule by going to bed at 5:30.

He tosses and turns. Dreaming of him in his arms. Lips on his. Restless. Waking up for brief moments, before falling back under. By the time he decides to crack open his eyes for good it's almost 2:30. And he's covered in sweat. Hot. Body still exhausted.

He lays still in bed for at least another thirty minuets. Staring at the wall. Emotions still raw and fresh in his chest, only slightly muffled by sleep, but quickly returning to full force as he wakes up.

He drags himself out of bed to take a shower. Telling himself he'll feel better if he actually takes proper care of himself.

He stands under the spray of water, frozen. Forehead rested against the shower wall. Water beating monotonously against his shoulder blades. Heaviness swirling at the bottom of his stomach. A shiver rushes down his spine when the water starts to go cold, goosebumps erupting across his arms. It snaps him from his melancholy, and he forces himself to stop staring at the wall and actually clean himself.

He brushes his teeth. Combs his hair. Puts on deodorant. Gets a fresh set of clothes. New pair of sweats. His comfiest pair of socks. His favorite hoodie.

He has cereal. Or tries too. His stomach feels empty and he knows he's starving. But he can't really fathom eating. That and he keeps spacing out. Slumped over the table. Staring at the wall. Again.

The words keep haunting him.

_Do you remember that night_

No punctuation. Straight forward. Crashing though his brain like a train desperately trying to come to a sudden halt; screeching down the rails. Sparks flying. Utterly obliterating any and every thought he tries to muster, like a car stuck on the tracks.

_Screech. Crash. Crunch._

It's not until a tear tares down his cheek that he finally manages a little composure. Picking up his spoon. The cereal is soggy, but he forces himself to eat it anyways. He pours the milk in the sink when he's done, leaving the bowl and spoon to wash later. Instead he strolls to the couch. Plops down. Mind wandering as he looks out the window. Siting in silence.

His entire house is silent. All the time. Because he lives _alone_.

He's so alone.

That's what seems to break him. What makes a sound finally leave his lips; a puff of air as he starts to cry. Tears finally falling, tightness swirling up his throat like a boa constrictor.

He is alone. And he wishes he wasn't. He misses his friends. His family.

He misses George.

He curls his legs to his chest, hugging them tight, eyes squeezing closed and the need to be hugged overwhelming him. A tidal wave crashing down upon him, leaving him sputtering for air, drowning in the vast emptiness it washes him into. Loneliness a bottomless pit in a vast desert. And George would be the Oasis. Filling the hole in his being, like a puzzle piece that just fits so right.

Just to be told that it's okay. He'll be okay. Just for someone to hold his hand. Squeeze his fingers. At the very least, if not a hug, a pat on the shoulder. Reassure him that he'll make it out of this alive. Just the smallest bit of contact.

He knows if he called his mother, she would drop everything to come and comfort him. Hug and clutch him close, and let him bawl his eyes out. Rock with him in her arms, gently shushing his cries. Tell him it would be okay. Maybe she'd even make him a grilled cheese sandwich; something she use to do for him when he was little and upset. And then once his tears have ceased, and he's laying on the couch in the cool wake of his meltdown, she'd whip him back into shape. Tell him to get it together. He's an adult now. Tell him it's okay to feel like this, but that he can't let it drag him down. That he has a responsibility to himself, to refuse his desire to rip himself apart.

But he can't stand to try and explain it all to her. She doesn't know. He hasn't told her. Not formally, at least. He's hinted at it; that he likes guys too. And he's sure she's picked up on it, and she knows. But he hasn't actually _told_ her.

He knows she wouldn't care. That she'd support him regardless; after all, she's the one who raised him. Who taught him to treat everybody with respect and kindness, regardless of color or identity or beliefs or who they love.

But it's still nerve wracking, to say it. To tell someone and admit to their face. Regardless of whether he knows he'll be accepted or not. It really shouldn't be, but it is. It should be simple and easy. It shouldn't have to be hard to tell his mother who he loves. But it is.

And he can't handle that today. Not now. He has too much on his plate already.

He knows she wouldn't ask questions if he made it clear he didn't want to talk about it. Which he doesn't. But he knows she would worry. She would want to know what's wrong. And it would feel like she was asking him what's wrong, even if she wasn't _saying_ it.

So he can't call her. Even though it's an easy option. A simple fix.

He could call one of his friends. Nick, even. Nick would understand. He knows. But just the thought of calling him, to talk, makes his gut twist. He's already laid so much on him. He doesn't want to wrap him in his and George's drama any more than he already has. And he feels guilty at just the thought of calling someone in tears. To put a damper on someone's day. It would make him a nuisance.

And he knows it's stupid to feel that way, like he's a nuisance. Because he knows anyone he'd call cares about him enough that they'd be more than happy to help him. That they wouldn't see it as a nuisance, or find it annoying. They'd gladly offer him a shoulder to cry on.

But it still makes him feel terrible.

He realizes he's partially responsible for this feeling; for his loneliness. That it's this exact thought process, of being a inconvenience even though he knows they wouldn't find him as one, that's keeping him from actually reaching out.

And it's frustrating that he does this to himself. It would be so easy to pick up his phone and call someone. Just to talk. Or even get in the car and go to his parent's house, where they would greet him with open arms and let him fall apart with no judgement. Or visit a friend he hasn't seen in a while. Just to be around people.

But he can't get himself to do so. Because he's already set it in his mind that he can't. Even if he knows that he can.

It only magnifies the emptiness in his chest. Oozing through the part of his brain that's already hurting, like a conductor for the neural impulses shooting off in his mind that's telling him he feels like shit. Making his body ache. Collarbones hurt. Sternum sink. Throat clench. Tears streaming his cheeks as he shakes.

Suddenly there's a poke at his arm. It makes him suck in a breath, looking up.

Patches is standing on the couch next to him. Whiskers twitching as she sniffs at him, ears pinned back, eyes wide. Obviously confused.

_Why is the human making so much noise?_

His heart clenches in his chest. He reaches out to pet her. She flinches away at his hand, but then allows it. Back arching into his hand. Tail flicking up straight. He can't help it. He unravels from his ball to grab her, pulling her close to his chest. Unable to stop himself from clutching her close. She squirms at first, but then seems to give in. He presses a kiss to the top of her head, fingers brushing over her chest fur. And then she purrs. Vibrating against his chest, paws kneading at his arm. And it makes his heart soar and clench all at the same time.

A sob leaves his lips, and he clutches her close. Unable to stop. It's so simple. Just the smallest amount of contact, and it has him in shambles.

It makes him yearn for a reciprocated hug even harder. It makes him wish she could hug him, and tell him it's alright. Instead of him just crushing her close. But she's offering him comfort in her own, cat way. And it does manage to help fill the void in his chest, if at least a little bit.

She squirms in his arms, and he stops himself from squeezing her so tight. He presses another kiss to her head, whispering an "I love you" into her fur. And to his complete surprise, she licks his face. Tongue rasping across the stumble on his jaw, licking up a tear. It draws a scoff from his lips at the sheer insanity of it. Heart clenching. In what world?

Like she knows he's upset. And he just wants comforted.

"You're something else Patches," he whispers, rubbing under her chin. She just continues to purr against his chest, white paws kneading the air. Evidently he caught her during a time where she wants cuddles. How lucky.

The rest of the day is fairly unproductive. He mostly sits on the couch, the TV tuned to football, but he can't be bothered to really watch.

Instead his mind wanders endlessly. Occasional tears slipping down his cheeks. Chest clenching.

He keeps getting flashbacks of the two of them on this very couch. Of George snuggled into his side, head resting against his shoulder. Or laying on top of him, ear to his chest. Clay absent mindedly playing with his dark hair. George shifting his head to look at him, chin resting on his sternum. Dark brown eyes seeming so full. Sliding his hands over Clay's arms to intertwine their fingers, lips tugging into a smile. Clay flipping them over to hover above him, pressing butterfly kisses to his cheeks. Trailing along his jaw. Heart pounding. Unable to handle the warmth flooding through his chest every time he looks at him.

Eventually he forces himself to get off the couch. To stop wallowing in memories that only make him hurt.

He struggles to fall asleep that night. Every time he closes his eyes he sees the night sky. Pointing at the stars and showing him constellations. George illuminated next to him by the moonlight. So instead he stares at the ceiling. But slowly, even the ceiling starts to look like the night sky. It reminds him of his bedroom back at home. The one where he stuck glow-in-the-dark stars across the ceiling when he was 14, specifically in the shapes of the constellations. He's pretty sure they're still there.

Eventually sleep does overtake him. And it's like a sweet release from hell. Because he's not sure he even dreams that night. And if he does, they're peaceful.

Day two goes similarly. He sits at his kitchen island bar staring at the messages on his phone.

_[G] Do you remember that night_

_[C] Which night_

George still hasn't answered him.

He figures maybe George doesn't know what to say either. Maybe he hurts, just like him. And he can't find the words to express what he wants to say.

Clay knows it's stupid. In reality, George probably doesn't care. Maybe he was thrown off by the response, because he wasn't expecting one. Didn't ever intend for it to turn into a conversation. Just brought it up because it happened to cross his mind. So he doesn't bother responding.

Clay attempts to be more productive. Tries to edit the footage from the manhunt.

But his mind keeps cranking to a halt each time he hears his voice. Whether he's joking around, or screaming at Sapnap or _someone_ to help him. It makes Clay pause. And he can't help but replay it. Listen to his voice. Replay it again. Staring at his screen.

It's when he comes to a particular point, where George is talking to Bad. Says something simple: "Can I have some food?" And it's really nothing special. But it has Clay shuttering for air. It's what ruins him.

His voice is so soft. Kind. Sweet. Happy. Cordial.

And it's easy to imagine that same tone, so simple, bridging the gap to passionate and sincere. Warm and true, accent soft and fluttery.

And he can practically hear it in his head. Those three words. Sweet Honey in the summer sun. Warm and viscous in his memory. Accent soft as the words leave his lips.

_"I love you."_

His entire world crashing down around him. Shaking the foundation beneath him, rendering him bare to the world. Stripping him clean. Heart blooming in his chest.

 _"I love you I love you I love you,"_ he'd repeated like a mantra. Breath hot on his neck as he gasped for air. Hands gripping at his shoulders. Setting the hearth beneath Clay's heart on fire. An entirely new kind of pleasure rocking through his body.

He rips the headphones off his head, shoving himself away from the desk and storming out of his office. No where in the house is safe; every corner holds a memory of George. He can't escape him, no matter where he turns.

Suddenly he's scrambling out his front door. The pavement of the sidewalk burning under his bare feet. But he doesn't care; if anything it proves as a simple distraction. And it certainly hurts far less than the pain in his chest.

He's pacing in his driveway. Tugging at his hair. Trying desperately _not_ to think about that moment. About that night.

It breaks him. Truly and utterly rips him to shreds. He's in tears. A blubbering mess. Collapsing into the grass and staring up at the blue sky.

He can't get his face out of his head. His face in that moment. Dark Eyebrows furrowed, eyes squeezed close. Cheeks flushed red. Mouth open as he gasped for air. Dark eyelashes fluttering. And then his deep brown eyes snapping open to look up into his. Tears suddenly in his eyes.

"I love you." It tumbled from his lips. And he meant it. His face said it, in that moment. A breathy smile gracing his pink lips. Eyes alight with adoration. The tears in his eyes glimmering. Cheeks flushed.

It's what makes him truly wonder how he could have done this to him. How he could have gone from that moment. Where he showed him the deepest shred of his heart, admitting the world to him, in even just his face. Only to turn around a few days later, and pretend it never happened. Like he didn't say that. Like he didn't soon after grip Clay close and gasp it repeatedly into his ear, begging him to bring them both to bliss. Like he felt it with every fiber of his soul, to the point where he had to scream it to the heavens as they reached the end.

It doesn't make sense. It doesn't.

He's gripping at the grass, yanking it from its roots. Snapping the blades as he pulls. Agony wrestling with his heart.

He's not sure how long he lays there in the front lawn. Splayed out like a starfish in the hot Florida sun. Sobbing his heart out. Overheating and sweating in his hoodie and sweats, but too preoccupied with the pain ripping him apart to care. His neighbors probably thinking he's lost it.

But he can't stop. It's all too much. He's been forcing that memory down for so long. Because he knew it would destroy him the moment it resurfaced. He's purposely skimmed past it every time his mind wandered in the direction. So it just hits him like a freight train when it surfaces. Slaughtering his insides.

After a while he manages to gain enough composure to get himself back inside.

That night he sleeps on the couch; unable to even fathom sleeping in his bed. The source of his pain.

Day three is numb. Empty and numb. He feels almost nothing. Just a dull ache in his bones. He's hurt so much these past couple days that his body refuses to feel it anymore. Even if he can't stop thinking about it.

His perfect lips on his. Blissfully warm hands grazing up his sides. Making his stomach flutter. Mouth at his collar bones. Nuzzling against his jaw. Heart jumping. Fingers gripping at his back. Breathless moans in his ears. Blood hot in his veins.

Somehow it's the third day that hurts the most. Even if he can't feel it. Even if there are no tears. It swallows him up into a void of nothingness. And feeling nothing manages to hurt more than feeling something. Because he could at least feel the warmth of those memories, even if they still broke his heart. And now, nothing.

He's sitting in his office chair, mindlessly watching Karl's stream. Hoping his happy and goofy nature will offer him at least a little solace. So far it's not really working. Partially becasue it's almost two in the morning, and his mind is bogged with exhaustion. But he doesn't really care. He's terrified to fall asleep. In fear that tomorrow he'll feel again. Even if it hurts more not to, it's at least easier. He prays that in the end he'll be okay. That this will just blow over. That he'll forget George was ever his. And he won't have to suffer anymore.

And then he gets a discord message.

And it's George.

For the first time that day he does feel something. Panic. Terror. Pulse racing. Dread screaming in the pit of his gut, stealing the air in his lungs.

Does he dare look? He knows it's likely that it will send him spiraling all over again. But what if it is finally that explanation he's been waiting months for? Or it has nothing to do with their previous messages?

He clicks on before he really comes to a decision; impulsive.

_[G] which would you prefer I meant?_


	3. Pick Your Poison

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clay faces consequences for breaking a promise.
> 
> Which is the best of two evils?

It's punctuated. The message.

_[G] Which would you prefer I meant_ **_?_ **

An actual question, this time. Because George doesn't know.

He shoves himself away from his desk, chair rolling backwards across the floor and spinning him away from his monitors. He runs a hand up his face, knees coming up to his chest. There's about five thousand emotions rushing through him all at once. Overwhelming and plentiful. Most without names. Half not making sense. Pouring through his heart like molten metal. He doesn't even bother trying to make sense of the madness running reckless through his brain. Making his head spin and causing him to choke on his own breath.

It's a good question. Which would he rather? Pick your poison. Which hurts less?

If George was referring to the night it all started; the night that allowed it all to happen? Or the night where they collided; the night that tares him up inside?

Which came first? The chicken or the egg?

Trivial.

He can't even try to decide. It hurts too much. Both options equally as painful.

In the back of his mind he mulls over the thought that maybe the question mark refers to more than just those two nights. There's almost a weeks worth to choose from. Each memorable in their own way. Maybe George interpreted his counter question broader than he intended. The question mark because George had only considered one of those nights. Throwing the possibly of more in grants a whole new meaning to the original question.

He shoots up out of his chair.

It's a fucking question mark. George isn't a poet. He's looking too much into this. It's stupid. Pathetic.

His index finger jams over the power off button of his computer a little more forcefully than he intended. He swipes his phone off his desk and heads to the couch. He still can't fathom sleeping in his own bed.

He flips back and forth as he tries to fall asleep. He ignores the buzzing of his phone as he gets messages from Nick. Trying to pass out so he can just ignore all the overwhelming emotions rushing through him. Threatening to overtake him.

When he does fall asleep, it's light and fluttering. He tosses and turns. Can't seem to stay asleep for more than 30 minuets at a time. But he still tries. Because at least asleep he's unable to process that almighty question. Doesn't have to think about any of it.

But all he dreams of is memories with George.

Driving to Daytona. Spending a day on the beach. Searching for shells, chasing seagulls, splashing through the waves as they come crashing in. Eating ice cream. Filtering through touristy shops for a brief break from the sun. And then watching the sunset. Sitting in the warm sand and watching as tide slowly comes in. George scooting closer to brush shoulders with him; finally allowing them contact since the moment they stepped on the crowded beach. His fingers eventually intertwining with his as the tourists and beach goers start to dwindle. Both of them silent as the sun finally disappears over the ocean. Whispering faintly as the moon comes out, waxing gibbon reflecting brightly against the ocean. Both of them admiring the night sky, for a second time that week. Ocean still lapping at the shore.

And then the moment that it's just the two of them, all alone on the beach. George finally turns towards him, the browns of his eyes impossible to see in the dark. Moon light casting him in white; heavenly all over again. His hand coming up to cup Clay's cheek and pulling him in for a kiss. Admiration pounding through Clay's chest. Lips lapping like waves to the shore. Insistent and forever crashing back.

Eventually hunting for ghost crabs on the dark beach, George shrieking as he catches one, getting pinched. Both of them giggling like little kids at anything and everything. Blasting music through Clay's speakers on the drive home, singing to every word and laughing till there's tears in their eyes. Holding hands the whole drive. Finally walking through the door at 1:30, exhausted. Rinsing off the beach under the warmth of a shower head. George slipping under the sheets to join him after his own shower, dark hair still damp. His arms looping around his warm torso to tug him closer, releasing butterflies through Clay's chest as he smells his own shampoo in George's hair. Like this is normal. Like this happens all the time. Like they live like this: together.

The dreams are bittersweet. The moments themselves are lovely, and he could relive each one infinitely and never be displeased. But the fact that he can't live it anymore, hurts astronomically. And each kiss or brush of hair he feels it; through the beauty and fondness of the memory, and even through the curtain of sleep, he feels the stabbing in his heart. Because he knows it's not true.

His consciousness is pierced awake by his phone buzzing and a blaring ringtone. His vision is blurry as he bolts up, neck twinging from sleeping curled on the couch. Sunlight filters through the curtains of his living room window, lighting the room. He's still half asleep when he answers; moving on autopilot. Not checking to see who it is.

" _Dream_!"

He blinks, trying to wake up. The voice is piercing and _upset_.

"What the hell!"

He runs a hand over his face, grumbling out a "Hello?", grime stuck in his throat.

"You _promised_!"

Anxiety is already chasing his heart before his mind catches up with the situation.

George.

George is yelling at him.

"You promised you wouldn't tell Nick! What the hell is wrong with you?!"

Every inch of his being feels like it grinds to a stop. Frozen. Cold dread seeping into his chest. Seizing up his throat.

"I can't believe you." George mutters.

Clay doesn't miss the sound in his voice. Raw. Cracking. Breath shaky. He's been crying. That momentarily sends a pang through him, when he realizes this is his vault. He upset George.

"I told you to keep this between us! That I didn't want anyone to know about this! Why would you tell him?"

It slips through his lips. "Why do you care so much?"

George sputters. "W-what?"

"Why do you even care, if he knows or not? You didn't give a _shit_ about what happened between us, to the point where you just fucking pretended it _didn't happen;_ couldn't be bothered to say _anything_ to me. But the moment I mention it to someone else, suddenly you care _so much_."

"That's- that's different."

His guilt is quickly being washed away. Instead steaming over with hot fury that seems to rush over him, filling in any of his insecurities and convincing him he's invincible. White hot and angry. _Pissed_. 

"Is it though? Really that different George?" He spits. "Because to me it seems like you just want nothing to do with me."

"I-"

"Is that it, George? You just want to be fucking _done_? _Over_?"

"Stop it! Stop putting words in my mouth!"

"Well maybe if you'd actually _talk to me_ -"

"That's what I'm _trying_ to do!"

"You're _yelling_ at me!"

"You're the one that's yelling!"

The call falls silent. Heavy breathing from both receivers.

Clay can already see that this is it. One of them is going to hang up. And then they won't talk. For months. He can already hear George's voice, breathing an exhausted "goodbye Clay," into the phone.

"It's because I care too much."

Small and crackily. Barely loud enough for Clay to hear.

"What?" He breathes.

George sighs. Changes the subject. "You promised me you wouldn't say anything. I trusted you."

The scoff leaves his lips. "Yeah well I thought I meant a lot more to you than this. Apparently I was wrong too."

George grazes over that. "Why did you tell him?" He breathes again.

And Clay's blood nearly boils. Things he knows he'll regret later spill out. Things he's been holding back because he knows it will destroy them. "Don't fucking play stupid with me! Forcing your stupid ass secret was pulling all of us apart! He deserved to know, and for fucks sake I deserve someone to fucking to _talk to_! You just, expect me to deal with all of this, everything you just fucking did to me, all by myself? That's so _manipulative_ , George! What the _hell_ is _wrong_ with you?"

George takes a shaky breath. And then those three words, that ones that Clay has been waiting months for, _finally_ leave his lips. "I'm so sorry."

But it doesn't land. George missed his opportunity months ago. Now it falls on deaf ears.

"Are you seriously going to keep doing this? Pretending like nothing happened between us? Refuse to explain what the hell is _going on_?"

George is quiet. Clay realizes he's pacing. He forces himself to stop.

_Calm down_.

"Every time I try I- I just can't. I can't talk about it with you." He says quietly.

"Why not."

George huffs. "I- I don't _know_. I'm sorry."

Clay runs a hand over his face, mind cycling.

"I can't stop thinking about you." George whispers. Voice soft.

It's a punch to the gut. Stealing his breath away. And it hurts. So much.

Clay shakes his head. "Stop."

"I think about it all the time, Clay. I- I wish-"

" _Stop_." He shouts over him, _needing_ him to stop.

Another silence.

Clay tugs at his hair, eyes squeezed closed.

"I was referring to our last night."

Clay's certain he's never hug up so quickly in his _life_.

He tosses his phone to the other end of the couch, standing up and moving across the room. Hands coming up to cover his mouth.

What the hell sort of game is George playing? This isn't funny. This is really _not_ funny. Hasn't he suffered enough? Is him not being able to sleep and eat just not _enough_ for George? What the fuck else does he need?

He knows the answer. Which one hurts more. Which poison he'd pick.

He'd relive that night on the hill and in the car a million times over if it meant he didn't have to face the reality of their last night together.

It's a wonder that it was even a question to begin with. Of course he'd choose the car. Of _course_. Because never in a _million years_ would it hurt nearly as much as this.

" _I love you I love you I love you_." Smell of sweat and sandalwood; lingering sea salt from the Atlantic. Hot gasps against his neck. Hands clutching him closer. Setting him ablaze.

He's collapsing to the floor, a cry bubbling through his lips without his permission.

It would have hurt less if George had told him to off himself. Clay wishes he had. Instead of this. This hurts so much more.

It feels like he's suffocating in it. Can't breathe. A hard lump lodged in his vocal chords. He can barely get the sobs through his lips.

He doesn't want to play this game. This horrible game where George re-decides his feelings. It's like salt in the wound. Taking the knife and twisting it deeper. He's already bleeding out; losing color.

His phone buzzes. Eye of the Tiger blaring through his tiny phone speakers.

He hesitates, choking up on his cries. He stares absently at the couch as the opening plays. Contemplating if he wants to pick up the phone. Maybe he should. Nick would help. At the very least Clay could yell at him, and Nick would willingly serve as a punching bag. But the guilt of possibly burdening him with his heartbreak still weighs on his mind, making him hesitant. The music stops, and he feels an emptiness pool through his gut at the silence. He sits in quiet for a solid thirty seconds, until his phone starts up again. It makes him flinch. He forces himself to pick it up, accepting the call.

"Clay!"

He runs a hand over his face, wiping tears.

"Dude I've been trying to get a hold of you for days! What the hell? Are you good?"

He takes a shakily breath, clearing his throat. He knows there's really no use in trying to pretend like he wasn't just crying; Nick will hear it in his voice.

"Um, no." He forces out, voice cracking.

Nick seems to pause on the other end. "Is...now not a good time?" He offers him an out.

Clay collapses back against the couch. Staring up at the popcorn ceiling. He appreciates his friend's attempt to let him go; Nick knows that he often doesn't like to talk about how he's feeling. A nagging at the back of Clay's mind tells him that it's actually because Nick would rather not hear about his problems; doesn't want to be bothered. But Clay knows that's the irrational part of his brain talking. Or that's what he tries to convince himself.

"Depends what you were calling for," he sighs, attempting to clear his throat.

"Oh. Uh, just...haven't heard from you. Thought...I should check in. See how things are going..."

Clay can't help the scoff that leaves his lips. "Yeah they're not going good."

There's a pause.

"I talked to George." He says softly.

Clay feels his chest sink. "Yeah, I know."

"You- you do?"

"Yeah. Just got off the phone with him." He can't help the bitterness in his tone as he says it.

"...oh."

"Yeah."

Silence.

"I'm sorry." Nick starts.

Clay's not entirely sure what he's apologizing for. Be for talking to George, or on behalf of George.

"Why did you tell him?" Clay sighs, running a hand over his face. He needs caffeine.

"I-I didn't mean to. I just...I called him because I hadn't heard from you, and you weren't answering me, and I thought maybe he'd heard from you, I don't know." He sighs. "And I just...I blew up on him."

Clay feels the smallest bit of pride; that Nick tried to stick up for him. Granted, he's still frustrated with him. If he hadn't said anything George wouldn't have called him, and he wouldn't be feeling like shit right now.

He runs a hand over his face.

"I guess I just...wanted answers."

Clay huffs, mumbling a "don't we all" under his breath, mindlessly picking at a loose thread at the seam of his sweats.

Nick seems to pause. "Did he...not...tell you anything?"

Clay pauses. Is Nick implying that George told him what happened? That he told Nick why he ghosted Clay but would tell Clay why?

"No. Nothing."

Nick is quiet. A barely audible "oh".

And Clay decides he doesn't want to know. He doesn't want to know what George told Nick. Because he's tried of playing George's game. He's tired of thinking about him, non stop. It's all he's been doing for the past 4 days.

"Can we talk about something else?" He says, and his voice cracks, like he's on the verge of tears, like he's pleading and desperate. He supposes he is.

"Y-yeah, of course." Nick scrambles, voice soft, "What, what do you want to talk about?"

Clay closes his eyes. His head only swarms with George. Literally _nothing else_ comes to mind.

"Anything. Anything but George. Please."

"Uh- right. Okay. Um..." Nick seems to think for a moment. "Oh! Uh- got an A on my last paper." He says.

Small talk. Clay cringes. But he goes along with it. Because it's at least better than... _dammit_. Already failing to keep him out of his head.

"Really? What was it about?"

Nick chuckles. "Uh, prof wanted us to compare a streaming platform to cable tv."

"So you talked about YouTube."

"Yeah."

Clay rolls his eyes. Of course.

"My mom is thinking about getting another dog."

Quick change of subjects.

"Oh?"

"Yeah. We're going to the pound tomorrow. She says she wants to start fostering animals."

Clay smirks. "Yeah. Sure that will go well."

"My room is going to be overtaken by pets. I will have no escape."

"The next time we record all you'll hear is barking." Clay grins.

"Oh god," he groans. "That would be horrible."

Clay smiles. "Better than your squeaky chair." He teases.

Nick scoffs. "It's not _that_ loud," he grumbles, and Clay can literally hear him leaning back just to make it creak.

He rolls his eyes, and they fall back into a silence. Clay stares at the carpet, mindlessly picking at the plush fibers.

"I think...I think you should hear him out." Nick whispers.

Clay huffs, gritting his teeth, throwing his head back against the couch and squeezing his eyes closed. "I don't want to play his game." He grumbles. Aggravated that Nick has apparently taken George's side.

"I...I don't think he's playing. I- he's just, confused."

Clay scoffs. _He's_ the one confused? That sounds ridiculous. What the hell would that make himself? Beyond perplexed?

"Goodbye Nick." He grumbles.

"Wait- I- I'm sorry-"

He hangs up on him before he can finish. Clay sighs, looking up at the ceiling, like it holds all the answers to his questions.

The rest of his day goes about the same as the last couple; wallowing around the house. Mind wandering. Chest hollow and heavy. Chalked full of pain. Random stray tears.

A couple days go by. And he doesn't really talk to anybody. Karl eventually calls him a few days later; Nick obviously briefed him on the situation (Clay can tell by the way he dances around the topic of 'George') but Karl pretends like he doesn't know what's really going on. Just offering himself as someone to talk to, to keep Clay's mind off things. Which he appreciates.

Karl invites him to a game a jackbox with Quackity, Corpse, Bad, and Skeppy. Despite him not really wanting to interact with anyone, or not really having the energy to put up a front for a stream, Karl manages to convince him that it will be fun. And it is; Clay actually enjoys himself, for the first time in what seems like weeks. It's a relief. Until a game of Quiplash where Alex obviously panders to the audience with a "DNF" answer. And it just shatters Clay's composure. He manages to last the rest of the game but leaves promptly after it finishes, despite Karl trying to plead him to stay.

His mother texts him the next day. A simple little "miss you! ❤️" that has him on the floor clutching his chest. It would be so easy to call her. So easy to finally get a little bit of comfort. They haven't talked or seen each other in a while anyways; sort of odd for them. He usually sees her at _least_ once a week. He supposes he's sort of pushed her away lately. But he still doesn't call her. Because a part of him just isn't ready to talk about it.

He continues to sleep on the couch. His back starts to hate him after a couple days from being forced to curl up; the couch isn't nearly long enough to allow him room to stretch out. It only makes him feel worse.

And then on Saturday, as he finally gets the will to step outside his house. Finally feeling maybe a little better. Just starting to push it all behind him. It's as he stands at his mailbox, shifting through junk mail, bills, and coupons, that he finds it.

A fairly thick envelope. Like it would hold one of the birthday cards that play music when you open it, except it's obviously not a card. His name and address, handwritten in pen on the front. A stamp in the upper _right_ hand corner; the side portrait of a woman with a crown. A return address to somewhere in the _UK,_ somewhere in _London._

But the kicker; what has him spiraling: the _Mr. George Davidson_ written above the return address.

Ice pours down his spine, and he's simultaneously hit with immense heat flashing over him. Sweat breaking out across his forehead. Hands trembling as he stares at the envelope. Suddenly light headed.

He fumbles back through his front door, spilling the mail across the dining room table. The letter sliding across the table to stop at the far side; away from the rest of the mail, like it knows it's special. He leans back against the kitchen island as he tries to straighten out the million thoughts going through his head. Trying to remember how to _breathe_. Clutching at his hair.

George sent him a letter. Anything could be inside.

It takes him a moment to calm down. To tell himself that it's okay, even if he knows it's not.

He doesn't manage to work up the courage to open it. Instead he leaves it on the table where it rested. He filters through the rest of the mail, putting it all away. But the envelope remains.

It seems to mock him. As the days pass, always a tug at his consciousness. His mind frets over what it holds. Kicking up anxieties in his chest. But he can't seem to open it; in fear that what he'll find inside could be worse than the anxiety of not knowing. It's contents have the power to absolutely destroy him. To alter the reality of his world in any way it finds fit. Crush his soul, or maybe even (highly unlikely, but a possibility) mend his broken heart. If at least a little. It's just a simple envelope; but it's his kryptonite.

He stops eating at the table. Not that big of a difference, given he usually eats at the island counter anyways, but a change nonetheless. He finds himself giving the table as a whole a wide berth any time he goes to the kitchen. Always eyeing the white envelope in his peripheral. Eventually sleeping in his bed becomes a better alternative than sleeping on the couch, where it feels like the letter looms over him from around the corner. It's presence on his dinner table is far more imposing than the painful memory that his bed holds; his bed the weaker of two evils.

He's holed up in his office, mindlessly bitting at a fingernail as he zones out in his office chair. The monitors in front of him fuzzy; out of focus. Once again, wondering why there's an envelope from London on his dinning room table. Why would George send it? What could he possibly have to say? Why send it in an envelope? Why not a DM? A discord message?

A ping pulls him from his thoughts. He misses the notification pop up on the screen, sighing as he pulls his hand away from his mouth to wipe it at his shirt. He broke the habit of biting his nails years ago. But he'll catch himself every once in a while when he's stressed. He ignores it, clicking away at his screen.

It's a discord message. From George.

His eyes scan the word "letter" before he can choose whether he wants to really click and read it all the way. It makes his stomach flip.

[G] Did you get my letter?

He stares. Heart racing in his chest.

_Yes. It's on my dining room table. I haven't read it. Why did you send it. It's haunting me._

He blinks. Eyes flickering down at his keyboard.

Their last interaction plays in his head.

_"I was referring to our last night."_

It makes him take a shaky breath. Heart clenching. It still hurts. Still makes his mind scream questions. And he knows the envelope (probably) has the answers. But even the prospect of it answering all his questions isn't strong enough to have made him open it. There was a point where he would have ripped it open immediately, desperate for a explanation. The fact that he hasn't opened it is so unlike him; he hates unsolved answers. He likes answers; needs closure. Hard facts and certainties. He's obsessive that way.

But now he knows it will only hurt. What ever George has to say; it will hurt. Even if it resolves most of their issues, the pain will still linger. He knows it.

_[C] yes_

He gets an answer almost immediately.

_[G] Please read it. Please._

Clay bites his lip.

_[G] Please. Tell me when you do. I don't expect you to have a response immediately but at least tell me when you have read it. Please._

_[G] I really need you to read it_.

He takes a breath. And for once it feels like a calm washes over him. Soothing his racing heart. Dulling anxieties and insecurities. Tumultuous waves settling in his stomach. Finally.

_[C] ok_

/ / /

It takes him a day to actually do it. He spends hours staring at it from the kitchen, arms crossed over his chest in both defiance and as a barrier between him and the hurdle in front of him. Finally he sits down at the table. House silent. Heart pounding in his ears.

He takes a shakily breath as he finally picks it up, staring at the handwriting on the front. He forces himself to flip it over, slipping a finger under the edge, trying to carefully pull open the flap. Telling himself to not think about the image that his brain conjures up; George's tongue darting across the envelope gum to seal it closed. 

Notebook paper. Graphite letters crammed across the lines.

He runs a hand over his face, taking a breath. Trying to settle the jumping in his chest. He closes his eyes, telling himself that he's going to read this. And it's going to be fine.

He finally tugs the papers free. Three College ruled notebook papers, back and front covered. Folded in half. Ripped out of a spiral notebook, the fringes still intact.

He unfolds them, eyes scanning the top of the first page.

> _Clay,_
> 
> _I think Ive scrapped, rewritten, and started this over about 7 times. Im still not sure if Ill actually send this. So. If you are reading._   
>  _Hi._   
>  _I owe you an explanation._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Never thought I'd say this but somehow I got tired of writing angst. There's only so many ways you can write pain. :/  
> Speaking of pain: College. College = paint without the T. And I've quickly lost my inspiration to write this, but I still want to get it done. So. Thanks for the patience on these. Will probably take me a while to get this thing finished, but I promise I will get it done.  
> Still don't know how I want this story to end. Sort of know where I'm going, but not sure what the ending really looks like yet. We're probably looking at 5 chapters tho... so over half way done (probably) :)


	4. Ticket

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clay gets more than he bargained for from George's letter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> /tw: internalized homophobia

The plane ride back to London was mundane. Long. Exhausting. An unsettling sensation gradually accumulating in his stomach. Just enough to make him feel uneasy, but he attributed it to being on a plane; flying suspended over a vast ocean. Defying gravity.

But it was just the beginning of his spiral. The one that would send him scrambling and second guessing every choice he'd ever made.

His parents greeted him at the airport, crushing him in a hug. They ushered him to the car after he grabbed his bags, eager to get him home so they could take him out to eat and talk about his trip; it had been a long time since the three of them sat down and actually hung out. He was met with a surprise to see his dog in their car. She wagged her tail so hard her entire body wiggled, and he couldn't help the chuckle that left his lips when she jumped up to lap at his face; whimpering and jumping around in excitement.

His father glanced at him in the rear view mirror as they drove to his flat, his mother glancing back to smile at him.

"How was it? Visiting Clay in Florida?" She had asked.

And there were about a million things he could have said in that moment. But it was then, with that question, that it really struck him; what he'd done.

He'd glanced down at their clasped hands, resting on the consul. And he was reminded of his own hand in Clay's, as they raced down the freeway. Laughing as they blared music. Reminded of the night before. Under his sheets.

And dread consumed him. Guilt welling up in his stomach at the thought of telling his parents the truth.

This wasn't suppose to be how things turned out. He wasn't suppose to fall in love with his best friend. He wasn't suppose to like boys. Everything was so incredibly the opposite of what _should be._

The thought of telling them made him feel sick to his stomach. He could have puked right then, in the car, if he hadn't forced it down. Heat swept over him, making him light headed and sending him into an immediate sweat.

"Good," he had choked out, throat going dry.

His mother had rolled her eyes. Started to push for more details. Luckily his father had hushed her, claiming he was probably tired after a long flight. George agreed. He used the same excuse as a raincheck on their dinner plans. They had reluctantly agreed.

The moment he was in his apartment, alone, quiet surrounding him, was when he fell apart.

The air seemed to leave his chest. His arms and legs went numb and heavy. Hands tingling like pins and needles. A cold sweat breaking out across his body. Panic rising up his throat. Seizing his vocal chords and jumping his heart into 6th gear. He collapsed to the floor, a sob breaking through his lips, light headed.

He kissed Clay. Made out with Clay. Did _so much more_ with Clay.

He was so not straight.

It was something he had already started to realize, when he started to catch himself flushing a little harder anytime Clay would shamelessly flirt with him.

He would wake up in the middle of the night in a sweat, mind racing over dreams of brushing his lips. Kissing him. Holding him. Just _having_ him.

And it took him so long to finally admit it to himself; that the fact that he was having those sorts of dreams, were not just random. Especially when they occurred so frequently. They meant something; meant he liked his friend, more than a friend. Coming to terms with the fact that that made him not so straight was a catastrophe, one he still hasn't managed to wrap his head around.

He likes girls. He thought he liked girls. He's not sure anymore. He should like girls. That's, _normal_. Expected. Easy. Simple. How his brain should be working; how he's been telling himself it works for years.

Evidently he's wrong. It's becoming more and more apparent that he's not entirely sure he ever _did_ like girls. Being with Clay for a week, that changed some things. Because Clay just made it so easy. Made it feel so effortless and simple and right.

George still isn't sure what came over him, that night in the car. He knew he liked his friend. He knew deep down that he wasn't really all that straight. And a part of him had started to accept that. But never in a million years would he have seen himself as the one to reach across and pull him in for a kiss. But something had just, hit him, in that moment. It was now or never. And Clay looked so perfect. Despite his soaked mob of hair. His eyes and smile were bright, freckled cheeks rosy in the warm overhead light of the car. His lips so soft and kissable. And admiration for the man in front of him crashed through him like waves as the night replayed over and over in his mind. Over whelming and literally shoving him forward. To the point where it didn't matter if he was unsure about his own feelings; being with him just felt right. Somehow, his internal conflict was the last thing on his mind when he pressed his lips against his.

And the moment Clay's hand ran through the back of his hair, touch shooting heat across his scalp as he pulled George back in for another kiss, was when George knew he was screwed. The heat of his skin seemed to seal his fate. Warmth bursting through his heart, filling his chest with light. Clay's lips absolute heaven against his own. It felt like all of George's worries and frets fell away to nothing. Like he'd never questioned a moment in which they kissed. How could something that felt so right possibly be wrong?

Clay just made it so easy. So so easy to pretend like he wasn't questioning his own existence. So easy to push aside the raging ball of anxiety rampaging through his stomach. So easy to forget his inner turmoil and second guesses. Clay made it feel normal; natural. Like what they were doing wasn't frowned upon by the majority of society. Made it so easy to get so completely lost in him. Made it so easy to love him.

So easy, in fact, that he never even saw it coming: the melt down, the anxiety attack, the identity crisis.

It was terrifying how easy it was. George got so swept up with him. So incredibly entranced. Like Clay had put him under a spell. It felt like George had lost himself.

So when the spell was broken, and he was brought back to reality - the one in which he's suppose to be straight, the one where he "likes girls" and lives in a flat in London and has two Catholic parents - it shook him to the core.

If he wasn't questioning it all before, then he certainly was now.

He knows being gay is okay. For other people, it's fine. Great. Perfect. But for _him_. To be _gay_? Why was it suddenly so much harder to say that it was still okay?

What's more terrifying is just how willing he is to do it all again; how much he wants to throw himself back in, and completely lose all sense of self.

He supposes that's why he did it; why he pushed him away so hard. Self preservation. A nagging feeling that what they were doing was just, _wrong_. Despite every moment with him feeling so incredibly right.

He'd told himself that he was wrong. That he didn't like Clay that way. That he didn't enjoy every second with him, the way he thought he did. That he wasn't gay. Pushed himself to denial, of both his feelings and who he was. Used his denial to justify how he treated Clay afterwards. Somehow he'd convinced himself that this was Clay's fault. That somehow Clay had dragged him along, manipulated him into thinking he loved him. And so George didn't owe him anything. He told himself that he was the victim; that Clay was in the wrong. Just so he didn't have to face his own internal conflict. Because somehow deflecting the entire situation was just easier. It was easier than letting himself feel happy over something he hadn't fully come to terms with. It was easier to push him away than allow himself to fall head-over heels in love with him. So much so that he felt like he was losing himself.

And it hurts to know that he's put him in so much pain because it took him so ridiculously long to get his head on straight. It's stupid that it took him so long to realize that good things aren't bad things. Its embarrassing that it took him so long to come to terms with his sexuality. Its humiliating how big of an asshole he let himself be; going so far as to convince himself that what he was doing was _fine_. It's frustrating to know that if he hadn't been so stupid, they would still be something; together and _happy_. George could have him in his arms. And he wants that; so bad. So _so bad_. Even if it means he gets consumed. Even if it means he has to leave his life behind. He wants it bad enough that he would leave everything else behind.

It makes his soul ache. He feels incomplete. Clay completed him in a way he didn't realize he needed. And not having him here just, _hurts_. There are no other words for.

Hearing him get so upset. Hearing him so far gone, so betrayed and heart broken, is gut wrenching. It has him in tears. Chest seizing. Tightness closing up his throat, cutting off his words. Tears slipping down his cheeks.

He just hopes the letter is enough. That he poured enough of his heart and soul into the words that Clay can tell he's serious. That he wants this. That he fucked up, and he's _so_ _sorry_.

///

> _Clay,_
> 
> _I think Ive scrapped, rewritten, and started this over 7 times. Im still not sure if Ill actually send this. So. If you are reading._  
>  _Hi._  
>  _I owe you an explanation._
> 
> _I kept meaning to talk about this with you in a call. But every time I try I cant find the words. Its like I forget how to speak. I think its because I just dont know where to start. I dont know where to begin with how to apologize._  
>  _So. First things first: Im sorry. So incredibly sorry. I treated you like absolute shit, and I dont have a single proper excuse for it. This entire letter is basically me just making excuses, but I want to make it clear that I know none of them justify what I did. I really fucked up. I cant even put into words how terrible I feel for doing this to you. I dont expect you to forgive me (Im not sure I would if I were you) but you deserve to know why. Considering everything Ive done, this is the least I can do._  
>  _I know that by bringing this all back up Im only making it worse. I dont mean to play with your feelings. Im just trying to figure out my own, and youre stuck in the crossfire. And Im sorry that you had to be the one to deal with me while I figured this all out. You deserve so much better than this. But you also deserve_ _the truth._  
>  _So I guess I should start at the beginning, over a year ago, when I finally realized that I like you more than a friend. I think Ive liked you for longer, but I wasnt willing to admit it to myself. Or it didnt really hit me till a year ago. And even still I tried not to think about it, or pretended that I was just being crazy. Because it scared me. (Youre my friend, and I thought I was straight)_  
>  _It sounds stupid to say it, but I was terrified of being gay. I know we have tons of LGBTQ+ friends, and I love and accept them all, and I know everyone would be fine if I came out, but it just felt wrong. I had told myself my whole life that I strictly liked girls. And then suddenly you were in the picture and I panicked._  
>  _And that was my first mistake. Was kissing you when I knew I still wasnt sure what I was doing, or how I felt about it all. I dont regret doing it, I just wish I would have waited till I had sorted my thoughts out. It wasnt fair to you to pretend like I knew what I wanted when I very much did not._  
>  _But you just made it so easy to pretend like it was fine. Like I wasnt conflicted. It just feels right, to be with you. I could forget about what other people would think, or how I was still trying to wrap my head around liking a guy. And you made it so easy to love you. It was so easy to lose myself in you. I was so ready to just give you everything. And Ive never felt_ _like that about_ _someone_ _before._ _And_ _it scared me._  
>  _So when I went back home, and saw my parents, and got reimmersed in the life that I live (the one that doesnt seem to have room for you in the way I want you), it terrified me. It was too soon. I wasnt ready (which was my fault). I was so ready to give you everything but I wasnt actually prepared to. And I still hadnt come to terms with my sexuality (which sounds so stupid to say, but its true). So instead I chose to pretend like it didnt happen. I blamed you. Told myself that this was your fault. And thats why you didnt deserve an explanation, because youd tricked me into thinking I loved you, when I didnt. Because you knew what you did, and were just trying to manipulate me again. I denied everything. Told myself that everything I feel for you wasnt real. That you never made me as happy as you did. I made you promise not to tell anyone because I was ashamed of what I did. I was ashamed to be gay, and ashamed that I let myself fall in love with you._  
>  _That was my other mistake. Was lying to myself, and hurting you in the process. I shouldnt have blamed you. It_ _s_ _not your fault. I shouldnt have made you keep it in, just because I couldnt face my own feelings. That_ _s_ _just not fair._ _I was a coward, unwilling to face my own problems._  
>  _I dont think I could ever apologize enough for everything Ive done. I feel horrible. I wish I could go back in time and stop myself. I wish there could have been someone to knock some sense into me. But it happened. And I majorly fucked things up between us. But I really dont want this to be the end for us. I know weve gone on pretending like everything is fine, for the fans, but I cant stand pretending like were fine when were not. I so desperately want things to be fixed between us, and I know things probably wont ever return to normal, but please. I dont expect you to forgive me any time soon, but I just need to know that we can be okay, that sometime in the future well be alright._  
>  _Maybe Im asking for too much, but I cant help it. I cant pretend like I dont think about you every day. Like you arent constantly on my mind. Like I dont see you in my dreams every night._  
>  _Because I do love you. I meant it when I said it. I know now probably isnt the right time to say it, but Im not sure there ever would be a right time._  
>  _I do miss you. I miss us. I know it was only five days, but I miss it so much. You made me so happy. It felt so amazing to be with you. Its cheesy and sappy but its true._  
>  _And I need you to know that Ive come to terms with it all. Or, Im really trying to. I think I am. Im trying to start over. I spent so long hating myself for it and refusing to let myself be happy and I just cant hold it in anymore. Im trying to learn to be okay with myself and what I want._  
>  _So. I thought you should be the first person I tell._  
>  _Im gay. I like men. Women are okay, but just not my thing. I thought they were, but they arent. Its guys. Just guys._  
>  _Im not sure you know how long its taken me to admit that. And how big of a role you had in helping me come to terms with it._ _If it werent for you, Id still be hating myself, and denying my own feelings. So thank you. For showing me the truth, and making me realize that its okay. Thank you for continuing to be my friend, even after I put you through hell. I wish my way of thanking you hadnt been putting you through pain, but I cant change what I did. I owe you so much. I still have a long way to go, but I hope youll be willing to keep with me, as a friend (or something more?). Because I need you in my life. You mean so much to me._
> 
> _Ive spent days trying to figure out how to end this letter. I still have no clue. Theres probably a million more things I want to say to you, and a million more that I havent thought of yet. I could spend eternities apologizing for what I did, and still feel like shit for everything Ive done to you. I still dont know how to properly thank you for everything youve done for me. So. Thank you. And Im sorry._
> 
> _Love George_

Clay flicks the paper away, letting it float to the table. He runs a hand over his face, groaning.

It's all so much to process. So much to go through. He can't even pick through his mind to string together a cohesive thought. He feels so many things at once; relief, frustration, compassion, anger, forgiveness, spite- the list goes on and on.

He wipes a stray tear, heart tugging as he recalls the " _I do love you_ ". It hurts.

He huffs, picking up the envelope to scan over his handwriting across the front. Trying to comprehend everything that he just read. It's when he tosses it back to the table, and it flutters to sit face down, that he notices something else tucked inside. He blinks, frowning. He pulls out a slip of thick paper.

There's a tiny sticky note stuck to the front. Three words scrawled across the bright yellow paper in George's handwriting. (Clay's not sure he'll ever be able to get the image of George's handwriting out of his head; the way he makes his R's and Q's and K's.)

_"Come see me?"_

His eyebrows furrow in confusion. He peels the sticky note away. Ice seems to pour through his spine as he glances across the paper. Turning his fingertips numb.

It's a plane ticket. To London. Scheduled in two weeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wanted to add more to this one bc I wasn’t fully satisfied with how this turned out, but wasn’t sure where/how. Figured it was good enough, considering this is probably the first draft of this story. So I thought I’d post it for Valentine’s Day.
> 
> Happy Valentine’s Day ya’ll! <3


End file.
